Wheel of Fate (25 page)

Oswald thumped me on the back. ‘Let's get on,' he said. His tone was surly, and I bit back the retort that if he did not treat people with more consideration, he would find himself without support. But then I recollected what he and his family had suffered, were still suffering, and thought better of it.

‘Very well,' I agreed. ‘There's nothing further to be done today.'

But once again, we were not allowed to escape so easily. Yet another hand on my shoulder accosted me for a second time, but on this occasion it was a woman's voice that spoke my name.

‘Roger! How pleasant! We meet once more.'

Ginèvre Napier.

Forcing a smile, I bowed over the hand she extended towards me, and then, in answer to her raised eyebrows and pointed glance in Oswald's direction, felt in duty bound to perform the introduction. He grunted something in reply to her civil words, his impatience to be gone almost palpable, but it would take more than a little discourtesy to deter Ginèvre.

‘I'm surprised your sisters aren't with you, Master Godslove. And your wife, Roger. I would have expected a glimpse of our new little king – and such a pretty child, even if he does favour his mother's family too much for my taste – would have appealed to them more than to you two men, hard-hearted creatures that you are.'

I could have told her that such coquettishness was wasted on a man like my companion, impervious as he was to any female charms apart from those of his sisters. But instead I drew her aside and, yet again, repeated the story of Celia's disappearance and the real reason for our presence in Cheapside.

‘We are about to return home,' I said in conclusion. ‘There's small chance of pressing on to Old Dean's Lane now. The crowds around St Paul's will be thicker than flies in summer.'

She agreed, adding, ‘I, myself, am simply wasting time until I can comfortably return to Paternoster Row. Although I daresay that if I spoke some kind gentleman fair, he would force a passage for me amongst the crowds.'

This was so suggestive a remark that, in another second, I would have found myself offering to be her escort, had not an unwelcome diversion occurred in the person of the silversmith, Adrian Jollifant. Until that moment, I had failed to appreciate that we were standing directly outside his shop, and his sudden appearance with his key in his hand, preparatory to letting himself in, came as an unexpected shock. (He had evidently been as far as St Paul's, but decided that enough was enough and had returned home for a little peace and quiet.)

He did not immediately recognize either Oswald or myself, pausing merely to greet Ginèvre as an old acquaintance. She, recalling our conversation of three days earlier, did make a momentary effort to distract him, but then that malicious streak in her nature surfaced and she deliberately drew his attention to Oswald's presence.

‘You know Lawyer Godslove, I think.'

The silversmith spun round, his face white with anger. ‘Y-you!' he spluttered. ‘W-what are you doing here?' His slightly protuberant eyes lit with sudden hope. ‘Or perhaps you've come to tell me that you've finally seen the justice of my claim and are willing to sell me the Arbour?'

Oswald's face was livid and all at once he looked a lot older than his forty years. ‘No, I have not, you stupid old fool,' he hissed and moved forward, shouldering the other man none too gently out of his way. ‘The Arbour is mine and will stay that way until there are no more Godsloves left to protect it.'

In the circumstances, it was, perhaps, an unfortunate choice of words. I know I thought so, and I saw Ginèvre raise her eyebrows and pull down the corners of her thin, painted mouth. As for Master Jollifant, he was literally jigging up and down with rage, not only furious at being addressed as a stupid old fool in the open street, but also burning with a misplaced sense of righteous indignation. He bounced forward and advanced his face to within an inch or so of Oswald's.

‘Well, maybe there will come a time when there won't be any of you left,' he uttered venomously. ‘Have you ever thought about that?'

For several seconds, Oswald stood as though turned to stone. Then, before I could guess what he would be about, he had seized the silversmith by the throat and forced him back against the wall of the shop.

‘What do you mean by that?' he screamed. ‘Where is she? What have you done with Celia?'

It took all my strength to loosen his grip. Passers-by were beginning to take an interest, grinning to see a respectable lawyer involved in a street brawl like any apprentice.

‘Stop it!' I shouted, forced to raise my own voice in order to penetrate his inflamed senses. ‘The man doesn't know what you're talking about, can't you see that? Besides, you can't have it both ways. If you're so convinced Roderick Jeavons has abducted Celia, then Master Jollifant is innocent. He's just a bit mad, that's all. He's just a prey to this ridiculous belief that he has some sort of claim to the Arbour.'

In my own mind, I wasn't so convinced of the silversmith's innocence, but that was because I was unconvinced of the doctor's guilt. Both were suspects as far as I was concerned, and in some ways Adrian Jollifant's was a less stable character than Roderick Jeavons's; his grudge against the Godslove family had far less reason behind it than the older man's. Indeed, it was totally unreasonable, whereas Roderick's resentment sprang from the very credible belief that Celia's rejection of his love and his suit had undoubtedly been influenced by her siblings.

My intervention had drawn attention to myself, and Master Jollifant gave a start of recognition. Rubbing his mangled throat, already beginning to show a bruise where Oswald's fingers had gripped it, he managed to croak, ‘You're that country bumpkin what bought the ring off me! And not speaking the way you spoke then.' His anger almost choked him. ‘If-if I'd known you were hand in glove with that . . . that thieving rogue, I'd never have let you have it so cheap. Sorry for you, that's what I was!'

Without warning, he pushed himself away from the shop wall and launched himself at me, trying to punch me on the nose. But I was too quick for him, releasing Oswald's arms and spinning round to parry the blow with one of my own, which caught my would-be assailant neatly under the jaw and sent him crashing to the cobbles.

On a day when the wine, flowing freely in the Great Conduit and others throughout the city, was the cause of many a fight amongst the drunken London citizens, our little spat was of minor interest to the Watch or anyone else in authority. Nevertheless, Ginèvre suggested – not without an ulterior motive, naturally – that Oswald and I accompany her to Paternoster Row and take some refreshment to calm our nerves before attempting a return to the Arbour.

‘The crowds will surely have eased a little by now,' she said. ‘The service of thanksgiving for the king's safe arrival must be well underway by this time.'

Oswald refused point-blank, making it plain that he expected me to do the same. But I was in a mood to distance myself from the whole tribe of Godslove and their affairs, so I accepted with an enthusiasm that seemed to surprise Ginèvre. I told Oswald that I would collect Old Diggory from the inn stable when I was ready and follow him home at a later hour. He was obviously displeased, but was too tired and dispirited to argue. The day had been a disaster as far as he was concerned.

I turned to the silversmith to help him to his feet, but he had disappeared indoors while we had been talking, for which I was thankful. I could not have hit him as hard as I had feared. I offered Ginèvre my arm and we began walking back along Westcheap.

The crowds had not thinned out as much as we had hoped, many people waiting patiently in the vicinity of St Paul's for another glimpse of their young king when he emerged after the service. From within the great church, the sound of the Te Deum rose in a surge of praise and thanksgiving, answered at once by a chorus of chirping sparrows and starlings that made their home amongst the churchyard trees. Moreover, the surrounding streets and alleyways were thronged with the grooms and horses and general retainers of the nobles inside, the different liveries and trappings making a colourful display that vied with the tapestries, rugs and floral garlands suspended from the windows of the neighbouring houses.

Ginèvre and I were at last within sight of Paternoster Row when we and others were pushed unceremoniously to one side to make room for a latecomer who, for some reason, had failed to keep up with the rest of the procession. I had a brief impression of hot, sweaty faces creased in anxious lines, a strong smell of horseflesh, the flurry of priestly vestments and the blur of white saltire crosses against an azure ground. I knew at once who the tardy prelate was.

‘Robert Stillington,' I informed my companion. ‘Bishop of Bath and Wells. He arrived at Reading Abbey the same night that my daughter and I were staying in the guest hall there.'

Ginèvre made no comment then; but half-an-hour later, when we had finally reached the relative peace and quiet of her house in Paternoster Row and were sipping wine and nibbling at little almond doucettes – typical women's fare which I would willingly have traded for a good, honest pot of ale and a hunk of bread and cheese – she remarked, ‘Stillington! I seem to recall that His Grace suffered a spell of imprisonment around the time that Clarence was arrested and executed. Does that fact have any significance, do you think?'

I had always thought her an astute woman, who kept a finger on the pulse of public life, unlike most of her sex who found politics a bore.

‘It might well have,' I agreed. ‘The two men were always friendly in a conspiratorial sort of way. I saw them together once at Farleigh Castle, near Bath. I thought then that they shared some secret. But I could be wrong, and probably am. Certainly at Clarence's trial, the bishop's name was never mentioned. Which reminds me,' I went on, ‘are you still friends with the Babcary family?'

Miles Babcary was – or had been – a goldsmith in Cheapside, and five years earlier I had been instrumental in proving his daughter, Isolda Bonifant, innocent of poisoning her husband.

Ginèvre shook her head. ‘Miles sold the shop two years ago and they moved away, or so I was told. But where they went, I've no idea. Nor care. They were nothing to me. Weren't they related in one degree or another to the late king's mistress, Jane Shore?' When I nodded, she gave a sneering little laugh and went on, ‘Not much of a connection now that Edward's dead. They say that at the moment her favours are being shared by both Hastings and Dorset, but if young Edward's to be influenced by his Uncle Gloucester, there'll be no place for her at court.'

‘No. I remember the duke didn't like her.' I bit into another doucette.

Ginèvre leant back in her chair. ‘He wouldn't. He's too puritanical, my dear. Besides, he blames people like her and poor old Hastings for his brother's decline in both health and morals.' She laughed again.

I fired up in the duke's defence as I always did, even at merely implied criticism of him. ‘Not that puritanical, surely. He has two acknowledged bastards.'

‘Both born before his marriage to Anne Neville. For the past twelve years, he's been a model of propriety and the husbandly virtues.'

‘You seem to think that something to be scoffed at.'

She gave me a leery, sidelong glance. ‘I should have thought, after all you've told me, you'd agree.'

Once again, I regretted having been so frank with her regarding Juliette Gerrish, and was thankful I'd made no mention of Eloise Gray.

‘I admire the duke,' I answered briefly. ‘A man of integrity. I wish I were more like him.'

She gave an angry snort and changed the subject abruptly. ‘Tell me about the disappearance of Lawyer Godslove's sister. Did I understand aright? Does he really suspect Roderick Jeavons of abducting her?'

I gave her a more detailed explanation of events at the Arbour during the past few days. ‘Although,' I hastened to add, ‘I don't share Oswald's conviction of the doctor's guilt. But then again, he can be forgiven for his suspicions – which might, after all, prove to be right.'

Ginèvre poured herself more wine and offered to refill my cup, but I waved the jug aside. She shrugged, her disappointed expression indicating that she found me less amusing company than she had hoped.

‘I wouldn't like to say that Lawyer Godslove is entirely wrong about Dr Jeavons,' she admitted at last, having mulled the matter over in silence. ‘Roderick's a passionate, strong-minded, strong-willed man –' she gave a small, cat-like, reminiscent smile obviously meant to pique my curiosity – ‘and any woman's a fool who tries to play fast and loose with him. I can see that he might be provoked into taking matters into his own hands. But I very much doubt that he'd continue to hold this Celia against her will. As soon as he discovered that his action had upset her, that she really was averse to his advances, he'd let her go and return her to her family. Besides,' Ginèvre added shrewdly, ‘you think Roderick's in love with Mistress Godslove. Surely that doesn't sort with the terrible things you say have been happening to the other members of her family?'

‘It might,' I argued, ‘if he were trying to rid himself of all the obstacles to his ultimate goal of marrying Celia.'

‘Then why not carry out his plan? Why ruin everything by abducting her before disposing of all her siblings? According to what you tell me, this person, whoever he or she is, has been a model of patience so far, so why suddenly abandon his deep-laid scheme? It makes no sense.'

I nodded, sighing. ‘I agree with you,' I said. ‘And in any case, Celia isn't in Old Dean's Lane. Oswald forced his way in and searched the house. There was no sign of her.'